The Bogdanov Effect
by Liashi FNA Sora
Summary: Who heals the Medic when he brings injury on himself? BLU Medic is about to find out. Gen.


**The Bogdanov Effect  
**by Liashi

Rating for blood and gore and also Scout's mouth. Descriptions of surgery, which Medic performs on himself.

So yeah, this game seems to have consumed my attention, and I can't stop getting ideas for fic, which is somewhat troubling as I have others I would very much like to finish. But TF2, oh gosh, the characters in this game! Anyway, here's one of my ideas that was short enough to bring to a finish in entirety as a one-shot, and write in only a week or two. Somehow it started out as an idea of Sniper having steady hands and how that might be helpful to Medic performing an operation, but somehow Sniper barely gets mentioned here, as the story morphed into something else entirely. Shamelessly indulgent and filled with much Medic hurt and then lots of team feels to balance it out. I seriously wasn't expecting to write this much Demo, either.

If you notice any errors or have some CC, I welcome comment.

* * *

They hadn't lost—for once in this whole godforsaken week BLU hadn't lost—but this was only due to the lengths Medic had gone to to give his team that fighting chance, and the effort had cost him. He was exhausted, and even breathing was a painful chore. Throwing himself in front of the RED sentry's fire when the Über had worn off just a little too quickly for Demoman to take the RED Engineer's nest out might not have been his most intelligent idea ever, but if he hadn't, the explosives expert might not have survived long enough to land that last blessed pipe bomb and destroy the whole mess. In the process, Demoman had just barely kept the sentry from sending Medic through respawn as he got the team the clear it needed to shove that cart the last little bit of the way. Riddled with bullets and shards of metal, Medic had collapsed into the corner of the former RED nest, managing to turn his Medigun on himself to heal his many bleeding wounds before he blacked out entirely. Demoman had run off to join the final push almost at once. Medic wasn't even sure if his teammate had looked to see if his doctor was still alive when he did so, but no doubt the Scot simply hadn't thought of whether he should check on Medic's condition at all, his half drunk brain too focused on the battle. Medic sighed to himself. This was why he much preferred to Über Heavy or even Pyro, who at least seemed conscious of him—one giving him sandviches and the other lifesaving, fire-extinguishing airblasts.

But despite his injuries he had survived to celebrate, so he gave a few of his teammates halfhearted smiles as they congratulated each other once the remaining REDs had fled the area. No one appeared to be in immediate need of his Medigun—small wonders—and no one commented on the bloodied condition of his long white coat and shirt, even given that they were riddled with accompanying bullet holes. Still—bullet hole ridden clothing was not usual, again, after a day in these fights, so if no one noticed that either, it wasn't surprising. It might have been a better idea to let have himself go through respawn, but he had saved himself before he really thought about it, and he didn't care for the idea of outright killing himself or having someone do it for him, just to force a trip. He trusted his own devices more than he trusted the respawn, and it wasn't a pleasant experience anyway. It would certainly be less pleasant that what he'd have to do to fix himself, so he settled on that idea.

Once his decision was made, he didn't entertain the idea of respawn again. This base was one of the most remote, meaning the power supply to it was less robust than most other bases. Here, the machine drew too much energy for it to be left on all the time without blowing every fuse in the building, or making the respawn itself so strapped for power that it began to fail and malfunction. During battle the power was supplemented by gasoline generators, and issues of fuel supply necessitated they not run all the time. The machine would go off shortly, and not come back on for another three days, when they were due to resume the war. At least he would have time to recover his energy with these three days off. He'd been sleeping little the past three or four nights. When the respawn went up and down like this it seemed to restore him only to the condition he'd been in when it was turned on that day. So, as the losses and then his late nights stacked up, he was increasingly weary, even after trips through respawn.

Medic trudged past the rest of his team, doing his best not to grimace at the stabbing ache of the shrapnel embedded in his body. He was fairly certain a few bits were lodged in or near his lungs and other vital organs, putting himself at some risk for constant re-injury on any bits that had sharp edges or points. He would remove them by hand. The Medigun only speeded the body to heal around the bits of metal that had caused the injury in the first place, unable to cause it to eject what had done it harm. Medic frequently removed such shrapnel from his teammates post-battle, and perhaps at least one of them would need that done for them today. But, given the recent losing streak that they'd just broken, he thought it likely that no one would seek him out for such treatment until the evening, after they'd had their fill of a lengthy celebration—not unless it was actually causing them pain. And unless it was, it probably wasn't too critical. So Medic intended to put this time to good use, first, to perform shrapnel removal on himself, and secondly, to get an hour or two nap in before his teammates came to him, enough that he would not be too tempted to take a bonesaw to the whole lot of _dummkofts_ out of sheer irritation.

He entered his dark and quiet clinic with a sense of relief, flipping on the light bank over the operating table. The doves perched on the various pieces of equipment and furnishings around the room stirred, having been mostly asleep in the dark of the room. He mounted the Medigun on the hydraulic, movable arm set in the ceiling, then proceeded to toss aside bonesaw and needle gun, as well as his outer jacket and other gear. In preparation for his work, he snapped some x-rays of his torso and upper legs, so he would know where all the shards were positioned. These x-rays he posted in easy view against a wall light. All in all, he counted a good twenty shards that would need removing, and he steeled himself mentally for a time consuming session, bringing over a mirror so that he could better see his abdomen when he got to work on it. Setting out a change of clothes to replace his bloodied and torn set once he had finished, he gathered up the other tools he needed—recently sanitized scalpels, scissors, clamps and forceps of various sizes—and laid them all out on a tray next to the operating table. He unbuttoned his shirt, then decided to get out the few bits that were lodged in his upper legs first, so he stripped his boots and pants off. He was hardly bothered even by the idea of being seen in the nude by his fellow BLUs, but if they did barge in unannounced, no doubt at least half would quickly turn tail at the sight of Medic half naked on the operating table, cutting himself open, especially if he gave them a big grin when he caught their gaze. The thought of the look that would be on their faces at that moment made him snort in amusement, and he rather wished one of them would walk in after all. But most of his teammates took pains to avoid him unless they were injured enough for it to be painful, not wanting to chance their doctor suddenly remembering an examination or procedure that really ought to be done. He would have to chase them all down individually later and make sure they didn't need any treatment after the day's fight.

Thankfully, Heavy was the one exception in the group. Medic was certain he would show up if he needed anything, all on his own. He was not squeamish about blood or pain, and despite the size and demeanor that gave him the look and feel of a muscle bound simpleton, he had a straightforward, blind-to-the-hazards curiosity of mind that made him willing to volunteer in any one of Medic's more radical experiments. That, and he seemed to actually believe whatever Medic said, even when he didn't understand it. Over time, they had formed a strange sort of bond, a mutual respect and companionship, that they didn't quite share with anyone else on their team.

Heavy had been the only one willing, initially, to undergo the process to prepare his body for the Über charge. To Medic's pleasant surprise, he had even submitted to the operation without needing sedation, simply letting Medic set to work. The Medigun was useful in ways other than rapidly closing wounds, since the beam adjusted to a lower setting allowed him to operate on someone without anesthesia and yet put them through very little pain or distress of any kind. It kept them stable and safe from too much blood loss even as he cut them open.

His mind wandered as he sliced into his own legs and pulled out the three shards lodged there, dropping them in a small, rectangular, stainless steel pan. He turned the Medigun up to heal those incisions entirely before he turned his attention to his abdomen, which would be a more extensive and involved procedure. Since he knew he would be stuck on the operating table for quite a while as he tossed off his shirt, he decided to put his damaged pants back on, if only to keep the chill of the air from becoming too much of an annoyance. He left them unzipped, settled low on his hips and out of the way.

Laying back and taking up the mirror, he gave himself a moment to sigh and roll his head about to stretch his neck, already anticipating how tedious this task would prove. Most of the metal was lodged deep, quite a bit was in his lungs, and at least two shards had gotten behind them entirely, nearly exiting out his back. He was lucky to be alive, really, but even living could be an annoyance.

The incisions stung briefly, and only when first made thanks to the Medigun, and soon the clinking of more shards being dropped into the pan came at regular intervals, the only other sound that of his own breathing and the hiss-hum of the Medigun. He let himself fall into a lull, his tired body and mind working mostly on autopilot. He had operated on others, but more importantly himself, often enough to know his own insides as well as most knew their outsides.

Archimedes fluttered down to perch on railing circling the raised end of the operating table by Medic's head. Medic paused in his work rub the dove under his beak, eliciting a tilt of Archimedes' head, accompanied by soft cooing. Archimedes stayed there, watching Medic's movements. Medic knew the dove was highly interested in settling himself in Medic's squishy and warm innards, but he wouldn't dare try it, except with patients that Medic had his back turned to.

Medic had removed all the shrapnel he could find in his abdomen, and was working at the more tricky prospect of picking out the metal lodged in his lungs, when he began to notice odd, burning twinges lingering in the wake of his incisions, and a shortness of breath that hadn't been there before. With a mild frown, he reached over and adjusted the Medigun's power up a notch. Given all the small capillaries and the delicate, complex tissue in these organs, it seemed the Medigun need a little more power to keep everything in painless stasis. Getting at these last shards was more difficult and more time consuming, requiring him to maneuver the forceps through gaps in his ribcage—since cutting the bone would make repairing his work more difficult, and he wanted to keep his ribs—or come around from underneath, plunging his hands in deep at an awkward angle.

Then, just as he had worked his hand in far enough to run up against the very last shard, the twinges intensified into sharp stabs.

Medic gasped and gritted his teeth, hand and forceps still somewhere between his right lung and the back of his ribcage. He cast his gaze toward the Medigun, and what he saw alarmed him. The normally steady blue beam was flickering, its color looking more transparent than it should. With every flicker, the stabbing pains in his body crested in waves, centered on his torso.

He understood immediately that something was wrong with the Medigun.

Laying there for a moment, stunned and trying to decide what to do, he felt the first stirrings of apprehension. Nothing like this had ever happened before, not in the entire time he'd been using the Medigun, and now could not be a worse time for such a malfunction. By now, with the battle long over, respawn and the generators would be shut down, and it might take Engineer half an hour to get it all back, so he couldn't—

The beam flickered off again, perhaps for a full second. Medic's chest spasmed, and the agony that ripped through him as he coughed sent flecks of light dancing across his vision even as their edges darkened and fuzzed. The metallic tang of blood was in his mouth. He fought to steady his breathing and ignore to all-too-logical side of his brain that could see where this whole situation was going. Instead, watching the beam, he pulled his hand out from under his lung just after another flicker, and somehow was lucky enough to time it so that the movement hardly gave him more pain. Clumsily, arm feeling heavy, he reached for the lever of the Medigun and yanked it forward to bring it to full power, but the beam didn't change, remaining as it was, sputtering and fading in and out. Medic forced himself to continue breathing slowly and evenly, and think, and not panic. He had left the Kritzkrieg in resupply, and the idea of trying to use anything that wasn't in his immediate reach was out of the question, as he didn't think he'd be able to hold his insides together, and get very far at the same time. He didn't have the tools on hand to sew himself up like he might in the typical method of operation, and even so, the sorts of incisions he had made in a number of his organs posed a serious problem to that method of repair. _Verdammt_, he had become far too careless in his—

The beam went out again. He wasn't sure how long, because the wash of pain this time was so intense that he lost all sense of where he was, of everything besides that pain, sharp and nauseating. An emphatic "what the fuck" was the first sound that registered when it receded enough for him to open his eyes and lift his head from where he'd slammed it back against the operating table.

Scout stood in the open clinic doorway, a mix of wide-eyed fear and disbelief marring his smooth, youthful features. "What the fuck," Scout repeated, more slowly, but sounding less confused now than he did horrified.

"Scout—" Medic fought back another gasp. The feeling of bands tightening around his chest made him afraid of what such harsh breaths would do to him if he took them at the wrong time. His brain scrambled to think of how he could use Scout's presence to rescue himself. He locked gazes with the younger man, trying to gather the breath to speak. Scout stood there, mouth hanging open, as another wave of pain made Medic stiffen. Scout took a step back, still staring. "Scout—" This time, the word mixed with a shout of pain. Scout bolted from the room, screaming.

Medic scrunched his eyes shut, coaching himself through the waves as best he could, despair and anger filling him at his wasted opportunity. He watched the failing Medigun and saw when the beam gave out and didn't come back on. Another fit of coughing took him as it did, and he might have passed out briefly, he wasn't certain. All he knew was that when it was over, he found himself listening to the ringing in his ears, staring up at the cool white lights over his operating table as their circular shapes swam in his vision. His chest felt raw, and blood was dribbling from the corner of his mouth down the side of his face. The fingers of his hand laying by his side on the operating table were touching something wet, and that wet was spreading. The ringing in his ears cleared enough for him to catch the sound of liquid dripping to the floor. Closing his eyes, he could only imagine what a mess he looked. With the way his condition was deteriorating, he was beginning to wonder if there was really anything his teammates could do, even if any one of them walked in at this very moment.

He didn't have the breath to laugh at the irony, but he felt its bitter humor all the same. Physician, heal thyself indeed. He had not expected to discover what it felt like to be dissected alive today.

The pain was relentless and insistent now, nothing between it and him, and it began to close in on every nerve in his body. He moaned through clenched teeth, gripping the bar lining the edges of the operating table with crushing force, trying to feel something else, anything else. He didn't have the strength to stop tears from leaking from his eyes, leaving wet trails heading toward his ears. His breath stuttered, his heart jumping and fluttering oddly.

The world around him began to quiet and slow, spinning around him, the high sounds fading and the low sounds becoming echoing and distorted and he knew, somewhere past the pain, that he was dying. He could even give himself a diagnosis, if he liked: exsanguination, most likely cause. Massive internal bleeding. All this, with a little pneumothorax thrown in, perhaps? Entirely self inflicted. Was there a word for accidental suicide?

Then Scout appeared through the clinic door again, nearly throwing himself across the space between the door and the operating table's side. His gaze swept over Medic in less than a second. "Holy shit, Doc," Scout breathed, mouth pulling into a grimace, the look in his eyes one of disbelief. He turned his head to shout in the direction of the door: "Hurry the hell up already, he's gettin' worse. The Medigun's totally dead and he's just bleedin'—"

Medic looked on, feeling aloof and disinterested, as the short, solid form of the Engineer entered, huffing, toolbox in arms. Medic somehow doubted Engineer could get the respawn up, or fix the Medigun, or even have Scout retrieve the Kritzkrieg from resupply, fast enough to save him now. Demoman came next, his expression going to stunned when he caught sight of Medic. Heavy was the last of them, bellowing something incomprehensible, his fists clenched as if for a fight. He pushed past Demoman with a shout, his jaw going slack and his brow lifting high with horrified concern.

But even as Heavy came up to Medic's side, the large man grabbing Medic's shoulders tightly, the room and its occupants seemed to grow even more distant and quiet. Medic let his grip on the operating table bar loosen. Even the pain was distant now, and for that, he was grateful. He'd had his fill. Darkness clawed at the edges of his vision again, every part of his body felt leaden, and now, he didn't fight it. Heavy was the one person in easy view, but the lights seemed to have brightened even as the edges of Medic's vision grew dark, and the shapes of Heavy, and then Scout, looking down on him were cast in glowing halos of light from behind, throwing their faces into shadow. He was dying, and he knew it.

"Doc—Doc, c'mon, man—"

Voices were echoing around him, familiar. His chest ached. He was cold, but without the energy to shiver, and he let his eyes slip shut.

"Help—"

"Bloody hell, can'tcha see it—"

"—dispenser," Engineer's voice cut into the others.

"It's workin?"

Something was rubbing the back of his hand, even as it nearly entirely enveloped it in warmth.

"Doc?"

His shoulder jiggled ever so gently.

"Doc, where's your Kritzkrieg?"

"Doktor?"

He tried to open his eyes but only succeeded in rolling his head to one side. It almost seemed he might have enough energy to crack them open, to see what was going on, but he couldn't quite muster it. He had lost track of the world around him, and he felt like he might be floating. He couldn't remember why he was so tired, and why everything ached.

The Kritzkrieg. Perhaps it was needed by one of his teammates … he didn't think he was in any condition to use it, but it wasn't that difficult a thing for them to do it themselves, if they only wanted it for healing. Yes … yes, he could tell them … still unable to manage to open his eyes, he forwent trying to see who he was talking to. His voice came out hoarse and weak. He had to break often to try to breathe. "In zhe … zhe re … resupply."

"I'll get it," a voice said.

More conversation swirled about him, but he no longer followed it. He let himself drift.

Then, something changed. His breathing eased. He could feel the flesh of his abdomen begin to stretch, muscles and sinews and skin knitting themselves together. The pain had vanished, and he felt his thready, rapid heartbeat begin to calm and strengthen. He gasped, feeling like crying in relief, becoming aware of how desperate for oxygen his body had been.

"Doktor?"

There was the sound of sloshing water, and something damp and soft padded at the side of his face and forehead, then wiped at the side of his mouth. The life was returning to his body, and finally, he was able to peel his eyes open, pushing past his weariness and battered state. He blinked at the dispenser set up next to the operating table, its miniature version of his Medigun's healing beam snaking to his chest. "_Was ist los?_" he murmured, his voice weaker and shakier than he expected.

"Doktor lives!" Heavy's giant arms wrapped Medic in a tight hug before he could react to ward it off.

His newly healed chest and abdomen tingled faintly, but felt fine otherwise. With his head sticking up above the top of Heavy's should just enough, he could see Engineer holding the Kritzkrieg, the gun still locked and healing Medic at full strength. He began to remember what had happened, and what must have happened afterward, if he was feeling this alive.

As Heavy released Medic from his crushing hold, but kept one hand supportively on Medic's shoulder, Medic nodded to Engineer, who held the Kritzkrieg. "_Danke … danke shön_. Zhere is no danger now, you can turn it off."

Engineer started, glancing down as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh uh—right." He pulled the lever back.

Medic sat up with a grimace, feeling a layer of dried blood on his hands and back crinkle. Sitting up brought on no ill effects, so he swung his legs off the operating table and stood. No wooziness hit him then, either. He set about straightening his operating tray, still mentally dazed and surprised to be alive. That had been too close. He supposed that the teammates present would give him a few well-wishes and begin to wander off to their celebration again in short order, now that the crisis had passed.

As Medic counted the bits of shrapnel, hoping that by some miracle the twentieth bit would be among them, Engineer hesitated with the Kritzkrieg only a moment longer before setting it down on a table off to the side. Upon reaching a count of nineteen, Medic closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. "Nineteen … I shall have to go in zhere again," he muttered to himself.

There was a silence, and Medic began to wonder why no one was leaving. Was there something they wanted? Scout spoke up, sounding slightly hesitant: "Erm … If yer lookin' for more a' those metal bits, there's one on the floor. An' some tweezers or some'n."

Scout pointed at a spot close to the other side of the operating table. This brought to Medic's attention the impressive pool of blood beneath it, which was beginning to flow toward one corner of the room, revealing an unevenness in the painted cement previously gone unnoticed. No one had ever bled out inside the clinic as incredibly as Medic had just managed, since he'd always had the Medigun here, and the heaviest bleeding had always been done on the battlefield anyway.

If Scout had thought Medic would be repulsed by the blood, he was mistaken. Even if it was all his own, he had too long been inured to the sight, and almost as long had been fascinated by the human body's limits. That he'd survived loosing that much blood was more of a curiosity to him than anything else. He couldn't say he'd enjoyed the pain, however, and even now, he shivered inwardly at the memory.

Medic came around and plucked the metal shard and forceps from out of the pool of blood, and compared the shard to the x-ray. It did seem to match the size and shape of the one he'd been looking for. "Excellent," he said, unable to tamp down his pleasure at knowing he wouldn't have to cut himself open again. He would prefer not to need to do so anytime for at least a week, and then, not without both the Medigun and the Kritzkrieg in reach.

Medic began to bustle about his clinic, tidying himself and the room up, as he tried to plan out the rest of his evening. There was the Medigun to examine, to discover why it had failed. The floor would need a thorough mopping. His doves needed feed set out, and on that note, he probably ought to get something to eat and drink. Then there were his teammates to bully until he could figure out if they needed treatment.

Come to think of it—Medic turned to look over his shoulder and frown at the four teammates still in the room as he scrubbed blood from his hands.

"Vhat?" he asked irritably, not caring to be stared at for no apparent reason. "Zhis is not a zoo, so if you vant something use your words."

All four glanced at each other, wary and questioning. It was Engineer that finally spoke up. "Well, it's just—ya just practically died, Doc. Ain'tcha gonna git some rest? Or somethin'?"

"Rest?" Medic shot him a look askance, puzzled by the suggestion. As they all knew, the Kritzkrieg had insured he was no longer injured; there was no need for rest. "I vill rest when my work is complete." He gestured about the clinic. "Floors do not clean zhemselves. Now go, let me work." Coming around behind Scout, Medic gave him a shove toward the door, and made shooing motions as he glared at the rest.

Scout resisted the push enough to only take a half step, then he straightened his cap. "Okay, okay, I get the picture. Jeeze. Just … don't do that to me again, alright?" Scout gave him a glare, eyes narrowed, and then slunk out of the room.

Medic went back to cleaning his tools, trying to remember where he'd last seen the base's mop. As the minutes dragged on and still no one else was moving to leave him in peace, he began to feel increasingly edgy, his earlier fatigue beginning to trickle back to a noticeable level. Medic whirled to face them. "Vhat is it you three still vant?" Medic crossed his arms over his chest, determined now not to turn his back on them again until they actually left. "Am I to fall to my knees in gratitude for your timely assistance?"

And perhaps he was being overly cross with them, but now his entire mood seemed to be plummeting off a cliff. The feel-good effects of being overhealed by the Kritzkrieg, he realized, were no longer buffering against the level of stress and tiredness that had been building all week, stress which had only been fed by Demoman's mid-battle lack of concern, his team's constant failure for an entire week, and his near miss while operating on his own body.

Sadly, the mediguns were not healers of mental or spiritual weariness. They could cover it for a time, just like many other drugs, but in the end, the only tired thing they really could heal was tired and sore muscles, which made sense, since that was really just damaged tissue in need of repair. It could energize one briefly, yes, but in the end even it was no substitute for actual sleep, an unfortunate fact that he was trying to correct by experimenting with the formula of the healing salve that the mediguns' beam dispensed. It would be incredibly useful, he thought, to be able to stay awake indefinitely, especially with the way the respawn functioned here. The beam also didn't fix hunger or dehydration, only blunted the feeling of it—and given the sheer volume of blood Medic had just lost, now that he thought about it he wouldn't be surprised if he was severely dehydrated. Before he did much else, he would have to sit down and drink something. Sleep, he hoped, could wait.

It was Demoman that spoke up now. "Look, Doc. Th'only reason Scout came here in the first place, was that we were hopin' ye might join us in celebratin'. Isn't right that you're in here workin' away while th'rest o' us are drinkin' an' havin' a good time."

Heavy gave Demoman a puzzled look. "I think Doktor needs rest and sandvich more than party."

"I'm sure 'e kin get that at our 'lil' celebration," Demoman argued with a wave of his hand.

Medic sighed, irritation only slightly mollified at their desire to have him join them.

He still had too much to do, and even with three days off, he wanted enough time to work on new weapons and strategies for the next fight. One victory was far from winning the war, and if today was any indication, it seemed it was up to him to get things done around here. "I appreciate zhe sentiment but I have too much to do at the moment. Do not vait for me." With that, he gathered up his change of clothes and stepped into the small side room which he used partly for record keeping and partly as a bedroom, swinging the door just shut enough that they couldn't see him pull off his pants and underwear. They were sodden with blood, and already growing uncomfortably stiff in spots.

As he buttoned down his new shirt, he listened for the sound of Demoman and Heavy leaving, but heard only soft, furtive conversation. Medic gritted his teeth and decided to start ignoring them. Heavy was too concerned for him at the moment to leave, most likely, so Medic would have to demonstrate he was fine before Heavy could be convinced. Demoman, Medic didn't know why he was still hanging around. Shirt tucked in and belt donned, Medic reemerged from the side room, giving his remaining two teammates an annoyed, but brief glance, and nothing more.

Remembering where he'd last put the mop, he found it nearly fallen behind a filing cabinet, all except for the mop end. He set to work using it to soak up the pool of blood, in between periodic rinsing and wringing. He felt increasingly weighed down and lethargic as he worked to clean the floor, but he was determined to show the two watching him that he was perfectly fine and they were wasting their time.

After finishing with the floor, he had cleaned and sterilized a number of his tools, and was putting them back in the drawers where they belonged when the dizzy spell struck. At first he stood there blinking rapidly against the encroaching spots in his vision, but he soon had to side-step and put out a hand to steady himself. To his dismay he somehow missed the counter's edge, and he found himself heading toward the floor. Then, a firm arm caught him, drawing one of Medic's own arms over padded shoulders.

"Whoa, easy there, Doc," Demo said quietly, sounding concerned, as he lowered himself and Medic gently to the floor. Sick with frustration and dizziness, Medic let himself be laid out flat, putting a forearm over his eyes in an attempt to ward off his growing sense of embarrassment. He was beginning to think he wasn't thinking, at least, not clearly. Why hadn't he drunk anything yet? He'd _thought_ about it. "Do ya need the Kritzkrieg again?"

Medic shook his head as much as he dared. "No," he murmured. "I think I have lost too much vater volume, vhat I need is to drink."

"Demo, get water for Doktor." Medic could sense Heavy at his side now. Thick arms scooped Medic up from beneath his knees and shoulders as Heavy lifted him bridal style. Medic dropped his arm, eyes snapping open at once.

"Put me down _zhis instant_, you mountain of meat," Medic growled, pounding and pushing ineffectually at Heavy's chest and shoulders, since the blows seemed to bother Heavy as much as a thrown pillow might.

_Of all the possible indignities—!_

But Heavy's arms were solid and strong, and Medic just barely controlled himself enough not to wiggle and squirm like a pouting toddler wanting to be let down, which he knew would do him no good and only serve to make himself look more pathetic. Heavy was now fully convinced that Medic did not know what was good for him, and Medic was beginning to agree with the sentiment in his own mind, even if he would never admit it out loud.

Heavy shouldered through the door to the side room, heading straight for the bed and depositing Medic upon it. He stood there with arms crossed and a frown on his face. "Doktor is needing rest." Heavy said, and though he didn't prevent Medic from sitting up, he looked ready to block any attempt Medic might make to stand up and walk away. The room was far too small for Medic to slip past him.

But Medic was still woozy, so he only sat hunched, elbows on his knees, his eyes closed. Soon, Demoman entered with two large mugs of water, one of which Medic accepted and began sipping. The other, Demoman set down on the desk that came up close the bed on one end. Medic could see the water inside the mug he held trembling with his hand as he lifted it, and he felt his determination to get back to work erode further, though he still clung stubbornly to the idea. "In zhe upper medicine cabinet," he said to Demoman, "Zhere is a medium-sized jar labeled with zhe letters O-R-S. Retrieve zhat for me, and zhe measuring spoons you vill find in the drawer directly below."

Demoman blinked, then nodded. "Gotcha."

When Demoman returned with the requested jar and spoons, Medic measured out the proper amount of the powder in the jar into both mugs of water and stirred until it had dissolved. The rehydration formula gave the water a salty taste that Medic grimaced at, but he kept drinking. As he approached the end of the mug, Demoman questioned if he should get more, and Medic handed the empty mug over with a nod, taking up the other. The third mug might not be entirely necessary, but he would rather start needing the bathroom every fifteen minutes than underestimate his need for liquid.

Heavy unfolded his arms, cocking his head. "If Heavy goes to make Medic sandvich, Medic will stay sitting here?"

Medic considered a moment, then nodded, taking another sip.

"Good," Heavy said, then strode from the room.

When Heavy had gone, Medic stayed where he was, continuing to drink. He was not Spy and had no intention of duplicity in his promise. By time he'd nearly finished the second mug, he was starting to feel sick of drinking, so he decided to set it down for a little while, determining to drink the rest, and some of the third mug, once he'd had a bit of Heavy's sandvich. Weary of everything at this point, he leaned up against the wall behind the head of the bed and closed his eyes, his feet still firmly on the floor.

It was just for a moment, he told himself, and he wasn't going to sleep. The dizziness had passed but now he was tired and shaky. He would allow himself to rest, just until Heavy and Demoman returned. Relaxing against the wall, using it for support as he let himself unwind, his breathing slowed to a steady, even rhythm. The room was so … comfortably warm, and that comfort and warmth worked its way into his tensed muscles. His weariness began to drop away, even the sound of his breathing and his heartbeat, and before he realized what was happening, the world around him, his awareness of it, faded out.

* * *

Demoman had only realized that trekking all the way back to the kitchens for water the second time was unnecessary once he was there. The first time, he'd had to go there to be sure the glasses he got were clean to drink from. Now, he only needed a refill, and he could have accomplished that at the sink in the clinic. He had to admit to himself, then, that the last hour or so had left him somewhat unnerved. He couldn't quite put a finger on why, either. It wasn't so much the sight of blood and body parts, he saw those all the time. He guessed he'd really been worried for the Doc, for a while there, and he was only just starting to think maybe Medic wouldn't keel over dead after all. They didn't have the respawn outside of battle, not at this base, and that thought had been in the back of his mind this entire time.

Most of the team was gathered about the table off to one side of the room, and they all looked over at Demoman's entrance. Scout shot to his feet, the legs of chair he'd been sitting in scraping audibly against the floor as his movement shoved the chair back. "Alright, spill. How's he really?"

There had been a tinge of green in Scout's face when he'd first come in screaming that Medic had cut himself open and all his guts were _falling out_ and he was _dying_, so the kid's interest in the matter wasn't all that surprising. Violence didn't seem to bother Scout, but most anything medical did. The sight of Medic in the middle of an operation on himself, one that had gone very wrong, had probably been a scene out of one of Scout's worst nightmares.

"Feelin' better, I think," Demoman told the group, seeing that they were all looking a bit curious. They'd all started running to the clinic, at the beginning of it all, but Engineer, carrying a ready-to-deploy dispenser, had shouted back at the crowd of them that they had better keep back. Four of them in that clinic would take up space enough. So everyone except Engineer, Heavy, Scout and himself had stopped, at first lingering in the hallway, then regrouping around the kitchen table to wait for news, and perhaps continue celebrating the day's victory. Demoman began to refill the mug at the sink. "Heavy finally convinced 'im to sit down for a bit, get some rest."

_Or rather, his own body finally convinced 'im to,_ Demoman thought. But he sensed that Medic had been trying to hide how bad he was feeling out of some misplaced sense of pride—it could be difficult to swallow having your own creations blow up in your face, and suffer for it, after all, Demoman should know—and so he thought better of telling the whole team that. And—maybe Demoman shouldn't, as there were so many other factors to blame as well—but he felt responsible for the whole affair, somehow. He'd noticed Medic throwing himself in front of the sentry fire that day in their last-ditch attempt to break the RED defense, and he knew that the Doc probably wouldn't have needed to operate on himself if not for that. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, too pumped with adrenaline and admittedly, rather drunk, to do anything but dash off to push the cart, desperate to make the whole day count for something. Now he felt a little guilty about his slowness, which had forced Medic to take such drastic action, and for not keeping better track of Medic's condition afterward. He'd been waiting to break out the Scrumpy until Scout had convinced the Doc to join them, but everything that had happened since then had left Demoman feeling decidedly sober, and like he really ought to stay that way for a little while. "Neeway, he oughta be alright, but if ya interfere with the Doc restin' I think Heavy might be a wee bit pissed wit' ya."

They'd seemed content with that information, and disinclined to annoy Heavy, so Demoman had left with the water. He encountered Heavy in the hall, who said he was going to make a sandvich, and charged him to make sure the Doc kept resting until he returned with the food. When Demoman got back into the small side room, only to see Medic sitting slumped against the wall, his heart had leaped into his throat for a moment. He rushed over and shook Medic's shoulder gently, and the other man had stirred almost at once, staring with a gaze heavy-lidded and sleepy, muttering something unintelligible before his eyes slipped shut again and his breathing evened out.

Demoman rocked back on his heels, regarding the doc. The color was back in Medic's face, whereas before it had been a disturbing ashen white. He didn't seem to be in any sort of distress. _Asleep,_ Demoman decided, _… just asleep._ He grinned, a weird mix of relief and guilt roiling in his chest, and set the mug down on the desk next to the mostly empty one. Waiting on Heavy's return, he decided only to make sure the doctor didn't slide from the wall and onto his face, for the moment. It seemed to take a long time, and Medic was completely still throughout the wait, except for the rise and fall of his chest. Heavy began speaking when he entered, but cut himself off when he saw Medic was asleep sitting up. Demoman inquired what Heavy wanted to do with a quick glance of his eye back and forth, and a short jerk of his head.

Heavy put a finger to his lips, making a shushing sound, his eyes glittering with amusement. He crept over to the bedside, setting the sandvich down next to the mug of water, and very slowly, very carefully, shifted Medic to lay on the bed in a more comfortable-looking position. This time, Medic didn't even stir at being moved, and Demoman began to wonder how tired the Doc had really been all along. Heavy spread a blanket that had been sitting folded at the other end of the bed over Medic, and after a moment of contemplation in which he rubbed at his wide chin with two fingers, drew Medic's glasses off and placed them gently on the desk.

Demoman stared at the sleeping Medic for a long moment, for the first time really noticing the frown lines in his forehead and the dark shadows under his eyes, which, combined with his stillness, seem to speak of immense exhaustion. He found himself troubled by the realization, wondering why it hadn't quite sunk in before, when now it seemed so obvious.

"Doktor sleeps like leetle baby man," Heavy grinned at Demoman, seeming to be incredibly pleased by how things had turned out. And Demoman wondered at Heavy's understanding of things; if perhaps he had known all along how tired Medic was, not even needing to see him with glasses off to realize it. "Come," Heavy said, putting his hand on Demoman's shoulder. "Doktor rests well. We can go back to celebration."

So, leaving the only the desk lamp on as a soft yellowy glow in the side room, and turning the bank of lights over the clinic operating table off, Demoman set aside his wondering about Heavy's eerie perceptiveness, thinking he might never understand the pair's relationship, and maybe it was better if he didn't. He walked in silence alongside the larger man all the way back toward the kitchen, where the rest of the team waited, sharing cold drinks and soft conversation.

* * *

Medic came awake slowly, warm and languid, a faint headache lurking just above and behind his eyes, but otherwise feeling more relaxed than he had at any other time in recent memory. The ceiling was blurry above him, but familiar in color and shadows, and Medic could hear his doves cooing and occasionally fluttering their wings so he knew he must be in his bedroom. He found Archimedes nesting on his stomach, blinking sleepily in return to his own sleepy gaze, and he stroked the dove's head, trying to think what he was doing in bed and whether today was a battle day or not. The fog in his mind was slow to clear—perhaps it was the headache, perhaps it was how comfortable the rest of him was—but when it did clear and he remembered the last few hours before he'd fallen asleep, he propped himself up on one elbow, forcing Archimedes to take flight and resettle atop a bookshelf.

Even with his vision blurred without his glasses, he could tell that no one else was in the room. He found his glasses on the nearby end of the desk and donned them hastily, trying to rub the last of the sleep out of his eyes as he did. A mug of water and what appeared to be a cooler sat on the desk as well. Frowning, Medic pried the lid of the cooler open and peered inside, finding a plate with a sandvich and a piece of folded paper sitting in a bed of half-melted ice.

_DOKTOR ONLY,_

the paper read in Heavy's angular all-cap scrawl, which had always struck Medic as rather childlike, though suitably and amusingly so,

_SCOUT DO NOT TOUCH!_

Smiling to himself, Medic left the paper on the plate and took the sandvich. Swinging his legs out of bed and standing, he walked cautiously at first, then with more confidence as he didn't feel the least bit fatigue or dizziness, and the world around him seemed sharp, the details clear instead of muddled. He munched on the sandvich as he checked his doves' food and water trays, finding them all sufficiently replenished, though he couldn't remember doing so. Shrugging, he decided to head to the kitchen instead. By this time the headache had faded and he was feeling hungry enough to eat at least three of Heavy's sandviches. With this particular base being mostly windowless, a glance at the clock to check the time showed both hands pointing to the top. Midnight then, since as last he had known, it was around five pm in the evening. That would mean he had slept perhaps five or six hours, a respectable amount. Most of his team might have drunk and partied themselves to sleep by now, but perhaps one or two might still be up.

He headed for the kitchen, encountering no one on his way. He found only Demoman half-slumped at the kitchen table, his hand clenching the neck of the bottle of Scrumpy that rested on the table's wooden surface. Demoman straightened a little at Medic's entrance, becoming alert—as alert as he ever got, anyway. He must not have drunk much of that bottle yet.

Medic's annoyance with Demoman and the rest of his team felt distant now, though seeing Demoman still made something twinge in Medic, and he looked away after a perfunctory nod of greeting, instead giving his attention to the refrigerator and its contents.

"Ay, mornin', Doc," Demoman greeted, neither too cheerful nor too wary. "Some leftover omelet in there if ye'd like."

"I'd hardly call it morning now," Medic said mildly, put a little at ease by Demoman's lack of awkwardness in return. He quickly spotted the omelet and pulled it out, supposing it would do for a solid sort of midnight snack.

Demoman chuckled. "'S'pose you're right. Afternoon, then."

Medic had to pause and stare at Demoman, then at the clock on the wall which read five past … twelve. Even though he tried to reason that maybe Demoman was too drunk to know what he was talking about, Medic had seen him really drunk, and he wasn't like this when he was. No, this was more his "going into battle" drunk, the drunk where he could still think and aim and communicate well enough to function in a fight.

But, no, he couldn't have … he _couldn't_ have slept going on seventeen hours—could he?

"Wot's tha' look for?" Demoman furrowed his brow.

Medic turned toward the sink, making a task of getting a glass of water to hide his shock. Perhaps he'd been pushing himself closer to the edge of collapse than he'd realized. He considered the past week, the latter part of which he'd been sleeping a scant one or two hours every night, using every spare moment trying to come up with a foolproof plan, or a new type of medigun that might just catch the REDs off guard enough to net them a win. "Nothing," he managed to say in a tone that masked his astonishment, "It has simply been … vell, I am not certain zhe last time I slept quite so long. Vhy did no one wake me?"

"Heavy wouldn' let us, an' no one wants to mess wit'em. So we all left ya alone, though some o' us were even startin' to worry."

"I vas simply catching up, I suppose," Medic said. Deciding to eat his food cold, he brought the omelet and water over to the table and sat down. Demoman glanced in his direction as he did so, but otherwise kept his gaze on the bottle of Scrumpy as he took swigs from it a leisurely pace.

"Vhere are the others?" Medic asked, finally becoming curious enough that he could no longer keep his silence.

Demoman gave a shrug with one shoulder. "'Round. Sniper's out practicin' his aim o' some such. Scout's runnin' laps, an' Pyro joined 'im, if I heard 'is mufflin' right. Spy's—well, I couldn' rightly tell ya." Demoman paused for another swig. "Engie's tinkerin' with some'n in 'is workshop. Said 'e's got a new idea tha'll be big—or rather, 'small,' as 'e put it. Dunno wot 'e meant. Soldier an' Heavy were out doin' some sort o' trainin'. I was in here messin' wit' some ideas for explosives, but I'm due ta join 'em."

Medic stared at Demoman, surprised again. He couldn't remember the last time any of his team had practiced or trained or tinkered with new ideas, either, with the one exception of Soldier.

Demoman gave him a little salute and rose, leaving the bottle on the table. "We shouldn' need anythin' from ya today, Doc, but if you need anythin', just come 'round," he said, nodding. "I'll let the others know you're up an' feelin' fine."

Medic nodded back, unsure how else to respond. He pushed the last bits of omelet around on his plate, turning over everything he'd been told in his mind, as Demoman headed for the doorway.

"An'—Doc." Demoman was at the doorway now, but his voice broke Medic from his reverie. Medic paused in pushing the omelet around, but he didn't turn to look back, only listened. He sensed that Demoman wasn't looking at him, either.

"You know it was all you, tha' last victory—don'cha? We all know it was you." The words were soft and hesitant, at first, but Demoman finished with a hint of a desperate insistence.

Medic took a slow breath, trying to decide what Demoman meant by that, and what answer he really hoped to hear to his question.

"I know," Medic said at length, stating it as a simple fact, neither something to gloat on, nor something to despair for. Something uncurled in his chest at the knowledge that his work wasn't ignored, and what he brought to the team mattered, not just to Medic's own professional pride and the victories gained, but to his teammates as well. And he didn't think he'd been unnoticed, exactly, so why hearing it out loud mattered so much left him a little troubled, but he could not mistake that it _did_ matter. It didn't leave him feeling proud, exactly, or justified, no—

He felt vindicated.

"Good," Demoman said, firmly, after another silence. "'Cause we aim ta make sure it ain't so _easy_ for ya to be the best o' us next time." Medic could hear the teasing smirk in Demoman's voice, though he also sounded serious. "Take care, Doc."

"_Yawohl._" Medic's lips quirked up as he replied, though Demoman had already walked on and Medic couldn't be sure the other man had heard. He finished off the rest of his meal and left his plate, after giving it a brief rinse, in the sink. He pondered what to do next for a moment, in the calm and quiet of the empty kitchen, taking a deep, slow breath and releasing it.

There were many things he could do, many things, perhaps, he should do. But charged to take care of himself, and feeling lighter than he had in many months, he first went out to see his team.

_fin_


End file.
